Just over a year since his Bridgewater Hall début, Ben Gernon appeared with the BBC Philharmonic there again – this time well into his role as their Principal Guest Conductor, yet his first concert with them there since officially taking up the position.

The Czech Philharmonic on tour are a familiar sight, and they have built a following appreciative of their particular qualities, since they are an orchestra with a sound of their own – the way European orchestras used to be, in some respects. A distinguished colleague used to call them the bouncing Czechs: I like to think they are like the best of their homeland’s beer: rich, mellow, and full of character and body.

Kendrick Lamar has never been afraid to experiment. Since his first studio album, Section 80, was released in 2011, he’s explored funk, jazz, rock, soundtracks, ballads, and (of course) hip-hop, building himself a reputation based as much on his musical risks as his outspoken political views (as seen in the Black Lives Matter-orientated To Pimp A Butterfly, released to critical acclaim in 2015).

In 11 seasons of Frasier, John Mahoney played Marty Crane, a cussed blue-collar ex-cop who couldn’t quite understand how his loins came to produce two prissily cultured psychiatrists. His ally in straight-talking was his physiotherapist Daphne, whose fish-out-of-water flat-cap vowels were apparently the result of a gap in the scriptwriters’ field of knowledge. “When they wrote that Daphne is a working girl from Manchester," explained Mahoney, "they had no idea what that meant.

It began in semi-darkness. Appropriate for Arvo Pärt, perhaps – after all, Manchester Camerata have played his music in Manchester Cathedral to great atmospheric effect in the past. But the Choir of Clare College Cambridge, conducted by Graham Ross, delivered his Da pacem Domine in a hall where it seemed as if the lights had failed … not quite the same thing.

Since releasing their first record, Bingo Masters Breakout, Mark E Smith (b 1957) has led The Fall through some of rock music’s most extreme and enthralling terrain, cutting a lyrical and musical swathe that few other artists can match. An outsider, self-confessed renegade, and microphone-destroying magus, Smith has seen dozens if not hundreds of musicians pass through the ranks of The Fall over the last 34 years.

You can’t help liking Joshua Bell. The Peter Pan violin soloist of the classical world has been in the business for more than 30 years and still has his boyish looks and, more importantly, his enthusiasm and sense of enjoyment in making music. At the Bridgewater Hall last night the pages of his score stuck together at one point between movements, but he had a quip for the audience and carried on with a smile.

Alisa Weilerstein is making two visits to Manchester in just over three weeks. Last night it was with the Hallé, next time she’ll be guesting with the Czech Philharmonic. This one was to play the solo in Shostakovich’s First Cello Concerto, with Sir Mark Elder conducting.

Edward Gardner was back on familiar ground when he conducted in Manchester last night – his high-profile career began when he was appointed as the Hallé’s first-ever assistant conductor, early in Sir Mark Elder’s era – and his rapport with young audiences and ability to command his players has certainly not diminished.

Liam Gallagher is a great rock star. However, he often comes across as not a likeable person. He’s called himself “a cunt” on more than one occasion. But he bleeds inarticulate insouciance and arrogant rage. He doesn’t raise even half a smile throughout this whole gig. He carries himself with a chin-jutting, I-dare-you posture that adds up to charisma. And he can sneer-sing the hell out of a song. All that stuff used to be what we wanted from our singers before the post-Travis era of fleece-wearing, kindly, average-guy-next-door rockers.

He comes on, parka zipped to the top, just like his audience. All Gallagher’s male fans button up to the top, zipped up, and they strut, as does he. The crowd is 70-80% male but, despite the streets of Brighton being overrun with a mass of braggadocio, the gig is less tensely masculine than anticipated. Instead it’s a celebration. He opens with Oasis, “Rock’n’Roll Star” followed by “Morning Glory”, the latter’s great opening line still sinewy – “All my dreams are made/Chained to the mirror and the razor blade”. It works a treat. Half his set is Oasis, but intermingled with new material in a way that’s persuasive. There’s a boozy party spirit here tonight. A sense that it’s Christmas and let’s not over-analyse.

Gallagher’s comeback this year, his ostensibly semi-accidental solo career in the wake of his post-Oasis band Beady Eye’s demise, has been spectacular. In As You Were he has the fastest selling album of the year, and one of its best-selling (also the biggest UK vinyl album sales in two decades!). This seasonal tour of Britain is, then, a triumphant round, a return to the limelight to match the ongoing success of his brother’s High Flying Birds. His album contains a few juicy cuts and some of them match past glories this evening. “Paper Crown” channels Noel Gallagher’s way with strummed emotiveness, the single “For What It’s Worth” has the crowd bellowing along, for “Universal Gleam” he brings on a female cellist to good effect, and “You Better Run” has admirable punk energy.

With his five-piece band and three-piece brass section, Gallagher essays his back catalogue with aplomb. Between songs the crowd chant “Liam! Liam!” as if he were a football team. His relentlessly belligerent, heavy-lidded face stares from two black and white screens either side of the stage. For the latter half of the set he's trackie-hooded like a casual Emperor Palpatine. And he’s not one for chat, the only notable asides being remarks about how Brighton & Hove Albion “didn’t do [Manchester] City”, asking “are there any hippies in the house?”, and telling us the crowd affection is appreciated. With much of it, it’s possible to see an introverted man covering his social awkwardness with bluster.

Brit-pop was the smug invention of London media sorts who basically didn’t like or appreciate rave culture swamping the country. It was the idea of a retrogressive minority, the ones who missed Sixties-style pop stars, so they invented them in a pub in Camden. Oasis, however, were the exception, a real socio-musical explosion in their own right, a Happy Mondays vibe matched with acerbic John Lennon-meets-Status Quo rock, all bullishly retro. They understood 1990s chemical hedonism better than their twee poseur peers. And the best of their songs still have potency.

So it proves with “Supersonic” which is a ballistic, wonderful rock song; with “Live Forever”, the lyrics of which are trite and silly yet human, raw and touching, sung so loudly and passionately by Gallagher and the crowd (“Maybe you're the same as me/We see things they'll never see/ You and I are gonna live forever”). We let so many left-field bands get away with meaningless abstract lyrical bollocks, after all. Then, for the first encore, “Wonderwall” achieves national anthem status, 4,500 beered-up souls bellowing along.

That’s where he should have left it but, ever perverse, as we’re all shuffling out, and post-gig music is playing (Sid Vicious’s “My Way”), he reappears to do an unnecessary version of Bob Marley’s “Natural Mystic”. It’s not reggae, happily, and not too bad either, just unnecessary. But it was also of no consequence. Liam Gallagher has already given his people what they were after and it proved a tonic. This writer left smiling to a seafront full of swaying, singing people.

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